The Fleeting Bliss
by spyingmeringue
Summary: Bigby and Snow checked into their hotel room, eager to begin a long and peaceful honeymoon - if only they had a peaceful relationship. Rated T for foul language and frankly ungentlemanly sexual references.


**Disclaimer: If I owned the Fables series, I wouldn't be posting this work on Fanfiction. I'd be publishing it in a spin-off novel of some sort and making a lot of money in the process. I've never really understood the point of disclaimers. Isn't _not owning _whatever you're writing about the point of this site?  
**

**Happy reading!**

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In this particular situation, Bigby had really been quite disinterested in location. But, even so. Paris?

The hotel room she'd chosen stank faintly of overripe grapes and disinfectant, but oozed decadence otherwise. Oil paintings, crystal ornaments, tiny chocolate mints tenderly placed on pillows stuffed with goose feathers. Rich burgundy carpet, silken cream drapes. Snow tinkered and gasped and admired her way across the room's design, a long history of associating happiness with luxury trailing slowly behind her steps. He couldn't provide this forever, but these few weeks were for her.

He lingered by the door, all scruffy and wild and dishevelled, and watched her. Immaculate posture, skin as fragile and alluring as the sheen of fine bone china, and thick black locks that poured past her shoulders. And what was he in comparison? An unshaven fiend. Rumpled shirts and five o'clock shadows. A shitty brand of cigarettes.

His guilt was overruled by his gladness. Like the barbarian he was, he shut the door behind himself and embraced his wife.

"You like the room?" He asked, his large arms crossing across her petite waist like thick tree trunks, surprisingly gentle, as he rested his chin on her shoulder.

She smirked in response, and said. "I suppose it's adequate."

"What? Is this tower not tall enough for your protection, your highness?" At that, she shoved him, but not hard enough to quieten his gruff and bellowed laughter.

She snapped, indignant. "Perhaps it's the notion that I'm trapped in here by a measly dog, rather than a fierce dragon!"

"Well, I'll be," he paused, a sly grin still tracing the corners of his lips. "You've got a thing for reptiles, too?"

Her nostrils flared and her cheeks burnt lightly with embarrassment. "You're a pig, Bigby Wolf," she mumbled, storming towards the bed and leaping between the sheets, curling up among them. He followed her, taking a seat and leaning over to place a hand on what was probably her shoulder.

"First dragons, now pigs. Is there something you're not telling me, Snowfall?"

She poked her head out from the rumpled sheets, eyes narrowed. "You're never going to have sex again."

He snorted, and carefully tucked several strands of hair behind her ear. "According to Beast, that seems to be one of the conditions of being married. I believe diamonds help with negotiations, though."

"Beast has never been married to me," she said, focusing her glare more steadily on him and flicking his hand away from her face. "I've had my fill of shiny things, remember?"

"Perhaps," he said. "But have you had your fill of fucking?"

At that she let out a horrified gasp, leaping up and slamming a pillow into the side of his face with such speed and ferocity that he was knocked off the bed; the small chocolate mint flew across the room, hitting the oil painting. Almost immediately, Bigby looked up at Snow from his spot on the floor, bearing a hurt expression and somewhat resembling a scolded pup.

Dissatisfied with this, she continued chiding him. "Honeymoons are supposed to be romantic, Bigby! We don't _fuck_, we make love. At least, we were going to, but you've effectively squished your chances."

With that, she dramatically flung herself back into the bed and turned away from him. On all fours, he shuffled closer and burrowed his nose beside the exposed crook of her neck, muttering. "I'm very sorry, princess. Will you grant me pardon?"

"Hmm," she considered his offer for a moment, and then smirked. "Yes, I will. Under one condition."

"Anything."

"I want a divorce."

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**Quite impressively - if I do say so myself - this piece of fiction was written after more than a few shots of whiskey. It was, however, altered after I'd recovered. I recall many spelling errors and the insertion of the phrase 'donkey balls' every once in a while. Perhaps I thought I could post it and there was a chance nobody would notice. Hm.**

**Well then, kindly review, if you have anything nice to say, or anything nasty. My ego could probably use a bashing.**

**EDIT: I think people may be assuming that she seriously wants a divorce; it was supposed to be implied that she was making a joke. I'm not making an alternate-universe piece of fiction about Snow and Bigby's marriage lasting for two days. My sincerest apologies!**


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